


Of Scolding and Self-Loathing

by Avelyesqe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Modern AU, Self Loathing, destructive, in here be language, so there is a warning for that, technically before they get together in this little headcanon of mine, this is angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelyesqe/pseuds/Avelyesqe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire blames himself for everything and is too defensive, and Enjolras does the best he can to express his feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Scolding and Self-Loathing

Grantaire stormed into his flat and slammed the door behind him. Once inside, he hesitated, taking a moment to glance at his kitchen cabinets. _No,_ he thought to himself, and resigned himself to his couch, flopping down on it like the ground had suddenly given way under his feet.

And it might as well have. He tries his best—he really does—to spare himself from Enjolras’ anger (piercing blue eyes that are capable of outstanding apathy are not things he tends to forget). However, every now and then his demons come back, flooding his mind’s eye with a past he’d rather forget, and tempt his senses (the smell, the lingering taste, his quivering hand, the senselessness, the dulled pain), enticing his hand to reach for the bottle.

And he does.  
  
To Enjolras’ credit, he doesn’t mind casual sips every here and there when they’re all gathered in the café Musain listening to plans of revolutions and pure ideals that only Enjolras could truly believe in. But when Grantaire shows up to their meetings smashed and hammered beyond all belief, Enjolras loses it and his anger shreds the only bits of hope Grantaire had left to pieces.

Finding the couch unsatisfactory and an unsuitable place to drown his sorrows and dumb mistakes, Granatire shoves his way through his coffee table and collapses in the corner between his walls.

Between his heaving sobs, groaning, and desperate pleas of _‘why,’_ he doesn’t hear his phone vibrating from where he had tossed his jacket by the door.  
  
 **Courf:** R, are you all right?

 **Courf:** We know you’re upset. None of us are mad.  
  
 **Courf** : Just let us know you’re not dead or something.

 **Courf:** Hey, R, c’mon.

 **Courf:** Enjolras feels really bad, and we haven’t even scolded him yet. He wants to apologize…just come back, please.  
  
He’s a fuck up. He _knows_ he’s such a fuck up, and Jesus Christ, why can’t he just stop? Why can’t he just give it up? He’s trying, he really is, but sometimes it’s just too much and he needs to drown out the world. But Jesus Christ, why, why, why, _why tonight?_ He was so close. So close to getting Enjolras to trust him, to see him as something more than the bastard drunkard who’s worthless to the cause, to believe in him too.

Grantaire pushes himself into the corner as much as physically possible, hoping maybe, just maybe, the wall will suddenly dissolve away and he’ll be falling and won’t have to wake up and deal with this mess tomorrow. Or maybe the harder he pushes and the more he scratches at his paint, the more likely it is that the walls will devour him and he can just fade away.

He’s crying and he’s ugly and destructive and a pain in the ass and pounding his forehead and his fists against the walls hoping that maybe this will dull the screaming in his brain. _You’re not worth it, you’re not worth it, you’re not worth it._ And he thinks, _maybe if you weren’t such a fuck up Enjolras would actually give two shits about you_ and _maybe if you weren’t such an idiot you wouldn’t fuck up so much_ and _maybe if you just weren’t you, you’d finally be good enough for him. Maybe if you could erase everything and start again you’d have a fucking chance._

 _Why, why, why doesn’t he love me?_ Grantaire’s mind shouts as he calms down (or has no tears left to cry, it’s hard to tell at this point) and heaves a few more times before finally regaining control of his breath.  
  
He sits there, a gross puddle of sweat, tears, and broken hope, until his mind finally relents and he drifts off into sleep.

He wakes the next morning with crusted tears on his face and his shirt misshapen from where they had fallen and dried overnight. He sits there for a few more moments of self-loathing before getting up and stretching, his head pounding as a result of his overindulgence the night before.

He grabs his jacket and keys from off the ground and tosses the latter onto the coffee table before reaching for his phone. Nine messages. He quickly skims through his missed alerts: five of them from Courf from the night before, three of them from Eponine checking in to make sure he isn’t dead (and he takes a moment to tell her he’s alive), and one from Enjolras.

 **Apollo:** Meet me at the Musain at noon? I need to talk to you.

Unexcited for what is sure to be another one of Enjolras’ interventions into his drinking habits (though Grantaire’s been _trying,_ he swears), he checks the time. 11:03. He quickly shoots a text to Enjolras, and then prepares for what is bound to be a great time.

After a quick shower and changing clothes into something more weather appropriate (it was snowing, which he found out after he had already stepped outside), Grantaire pulls on his beanie and heads downstairs for the five minute walk to the Musain. With nothing better to do, and no desire to wallow in his misery any more, he takes his phone out of his jacket pocket and goes to send Courfeyrac a quick text (since he had neglected to before he left) letting him know that he is actually alive and as well as he can be.

He knows that they care. They really do, but he also knows that even he wouldn’t follow himself if he had to choose between him and Enjolras.

After a quick message, Grantaire rereads what Courfeyrac had sent (as he didn’t _really_ read the texts earlier that morning). He beings to read the last message as he comes to the doors of the Musain, and is interrupted by a quiet “hey.” He looks up, startled to see Enjolras looking out of sorts.  
  
“Hey,” he replies, readying himself for the harsh words that are bound to come his way. “You wanted to talk?”

Enjolras nods and opens the door for Grantaire and himself. Once inside, Enjolras quickly goes to the counter and orders coffees for the two of them before guiding Grantaire to one of the farthest booths from the doors. The two sit and wait for their drinks in silence. Grantaire, unsure of what he is about to be faced with after noting the lack of passionate fervor that usually accompanies Enjolras and his interventions, does not look up from the grains of the wooden table to meet the other man’s eyes. When their drinks arrive, Grantaire takes a hurried sip, but continues to refuse to look up. Enjolras takes a slow sip of his coffee before clearing his throat.

Grantaire still doesn’t look up.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Enjolras starts, a softness in his voice that Grantaire is unused to, “I was out of line. I-I know you’re trying. It’s just…infuriating when—“  
  
“When I ruin your marvelous master plans for revolution and peace on Earth?” Grantaire interrupts, defensive, the caustic words dripping from his tongue before he could stop himself.  
  
“It’s not about that, Grantaire. You know—“  
  
“Know that I’m such a hassle to everyone and it’d be better if I just left?” Asking to reaffirm what he thought Enjolras was about to say, but the way Grantaire says it, it’s not a question. “That’s what you were going to say, right?”

“No, Grantaire, listen. I—”  
  
“Just stop, okay? I’ve heard this all before. Too many times. I don’t need your pity, Enjolras.”  
  
“It’s not pity—“

“Then what is it? Some misguided notion that you could help me? That you could save me from myself and my vices and turn me into a real revolutionary, worthy of fighting for your cause?”

“I’m trying to apologize,” Enjolras said, his voice hardening and all softness gone.  
  
“Yeah,” Grantaire said as he started to get up, “you always do because _they_ always tell you to. Never because _you_ want to, but because they think you’re being too hard on poor old R who’s too weak and too far gone to stop his damn drinking. Just give it a rest, Enjolras. I’ve heard this stuff a thousand times before, mostly from you. Let’s just stop this act and be honest. You only care because you think I’m hurting your cause or they’re making you feel bad.”  
  
Enjolras stands as well, but doesn’t reply. His blue eyes sharpening, he’s unwilling to allow Grantaire (of all people) to accuse him of not caring about, well, Grantaire. He can feel the build of harsh words and pointed accusations building in his throat, but before he lets his tongue unleash his fury, he looks Grantaire up and down.  
  
 _He looks awful,_ he admits to himself. Grantaire, besides looking slightly more unkempt than usual, is dressed fairly normally. His face, however, betrays what he spent last night doing. Though he had taken a shower, Grantaire hadn’t managed to wipe the destitution off of his face; his eyes vaguely red (from either an outstanding amount of crying or from the hangover that he surely had; it was hard to tell), his cheeks hollow, and his lips pressed into a hard, thin line. Enjolras also thought he saw the start of a small bruise on Grantaire’s forehead, but he couldn’t imagine from what.  
  
Instead of unleashing his anger (because how _dare_ Grantaire insult him like that when he was trying to _apologize_ ), Enjolras softens and carefully steps towards the other man, gently placing his hand on his shoulder. But before he can start, Grantaire jerks his shoulder away and starts for the doors without a word.  
  
Enjolras doesn’t follow him. He knows that this is his fault, and he’s learned from too many times before that forcing himself on Grantaire when he’s like this won’t help. Instead he slides back into the booth and quietly blames himself for his friend’s defensive behavior. He honestly can’t blame him. The last time they had parted it wasn’t on a particularly good note. Enjolras quietly remembers the scene from last night, and replays the images of Grantaire, in tears, storming out of the same doors he just exited through moments ago.  
  
There’s a part of Enjolras that wishes he were able to more effectively communicate his feelings to Grantaire. But then again, there’s also a part of Enjolras that wishes he could strangle him. He knows that Grantaire’s been trying and that what he said last night was based on exaggeration. He knows that Grantaire, though cynical as ever, is honestly trying to help Enjolras out. He knows what lies in Grantaire’s past and why his demons never go away. He knows that Grantaire is only that defensive when it comes to him, that most of Grantaire’s relapses are his fault. But despite all of this, Enjolras can’t manage to quiet his anger towards the other man once it starts building. He had let it get out of hand, he was sure, but he was unsure of how he was supposed to remedy this.  
  
Enjolras spent the rest of the hour sitting in silence, considering what he should do.

Grantaire returned to his flat, emotionally exhausted from just _seeing_ Enjolras again. Their exchange couldn’t have lasted more than ten minutes, but all Grantaire wants to do is sleep again. He checks his phone. No messages. After lying on his couch for a few minutes, he checks his phone again (hoping against hope that Enjolras wants to see him again and feeling bad that he was so defensive and let yet another exchange between them end on a sour note). Still nothing. With nothing else to do (except cry, but Grantaire has done enough of that for himself and the entirety of the regulars at their meetings), he resigns himself to reading through his messages, smiling at the happy exchanges he’s had with his friends and quickly skipping over the less jovial bits. He remembers that he never read Courf’s last message. He reads it.  
  
 **Courf:** Enjolras feels really bad, and we haven’t even scolded him yet. He wants to apologize…just come back, please.

He reads it again.

_We haven’t even scolded him yet._

He remembers how Enjolras was the one who wanted to meet.

He remembers how out of it Enjolras looked.  
  
He remembers how soft Enjolras’ voice was.  
  
He remembers his exchange with Enjolras.  
  
 _I’m sorry. I was out of line. I know you’re trying._

He remembers what he said.

_You always apologize because they always tell you to. Never because you want to._

He remembers the rest.

_You only care because you think I’m hurting your cause or they’re making you feel bad._

He remembers how Enjolras’ hand lying carefully on his shoulder.

He remembers how he walked away without a word.

_Shit._

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, I'm really sorry this is a thing that exists.  
> I was going to write some cute Jehan/Courf fluff but that clearly didn't happen.  
> Forgive me?  
> :c  
> (Also feedback is appreciated because I am new to this whole fic thing)  
> (Also, like, let's be real I speak English as well as a mauled squirrel would)  
> (That is to say English is my first language, but I should be doing homework or sleeping and not this)


End file.
